Late Night Confrontations
by sweetishfish
Summary: Sam wakes from his usual nightmares to find Dean having an unusual nightmare. Sam wants to know what Dean is hiding from him, and Dean is being stubborn, like usual. Takes place sometime in season 4. Oneshot.


Normally Sam was the one with sleeping troubles. He used to attribute his nightmares to Jess's death, but the truth was Sam had always had rather dark, strange, and twisted dreams. And Dean was always the one who slept like a log.

Sam glanced across the motel room now, where, sure enough, Dean was passed out on his matching queen bed, mud-caked jeans and sweaty t-shirt still on. Sam envied his brother this little ability, to just give himself up to his aching muscles and exhausted consciousness. Sam, no matter how weary and sore he was at the end of the day, had trouble falling asleep. And, more to the point, trouble _staying_ asleep. Shortly after he would finally fall asleep, the nightmares would come, like a swarm of demons spewing forth from Hell, and make his subconscious their bitch. Sam nearly always woke up gasping and sweating and usually unable to return to sleep. Which is why he was awake when Dean started thrashing in _his_ sleep.

Dean was tossing and turning, mumbling feverishly under his breath. Sam slowly rose from his own sweat-soaked sheets and crossed over to where his brother lay.

"Dean," he said cautiously, hesitantly. He stretched his arm out to touch Dean's shoulder, but then withdrew his hand impulsively. He watched his brother's increasingly frantic fight with the sheets, fascinated. What did Dean dream about? What kind of fears could not be laid to rest as easily as the sleeper himself? Dean had told Sam that he remembered nothing of hell, but that didn't mean he couldn't have dreams about it.

"Haa...hah…" Dean's breath hitched, he was panting and clutching at his chest now. Sam suddenly felt very cruel, merely watching as his brother suffered.

"Dean…hey, Dean! Wake up, you're having a nightmare!" He gently but insistently shook his older brother's shoulders.

Dean flinched at the touch, and Sam instinctively withdrew, but continued to shout his name. "Dean! Dean! Hey, c'mon man…"

Dean roused himself with effort, tearing himself away from the id's chaotic control. He blinked away the shadowy remains of nightmares to gaze blearily up into his younger brother's concerned face. "Sammy?"

"Dean," Sam said in relief, "thank god, man, you were having one bad dream."

"Was I?" Dean rasped out, sitting up and scanning the room, regaining his sense of reality. "I don't remember any of it."

Sam's lips thinned and a muscle in his cheek twitched. "Dean, that's bullshit, and you and I both know it. A few seconds ago you were thrashing around in this crazy dream and now you're telling me you don't remember _a_ _thing?_ When are you going to stop lying through your teeth and pulling this 'I'm-Dean-Winchester-and-nothing-scares-me' shit?"

Dean blinked at him, then coolly turned away and said "I have no idea what're talking about, dude."

Sam leapt up from where he had been perched on the end of Dean's bed. "_Dean._ Look, man, you went through _Hell_. Like, hell with a capital H, hell! And you survived, but man, that's gotta leave some scars! And you're scared, Dean, I can see right through you. I'm your _brother,_ Dean. You can't hide this all from _me._ So cut the shit."

Throughout this entire speech Sam's words had been met with Dean's rigid back. Now Dean spun on him, anger spreading across his features. "Oh yeah, Sam? I should just 'cut the shit'? And do what? What d'ya want, me to come crying to you in the night like a little kid?" He put on a high-pitched voice dripping with sarcasm. "I had a bad dream, Sammy! There are monsters in my closet, Sammy! Will you make it all better, Sammy?" He reverted back to his usual albeit angry voice. "No, Sam. It won't make it all better."

Dean locked his eyes on Sam's as Sam began to look pained.

Sam took a deep breath. "…Fine, Dean. Maybe talking about it's not going to help you. Then can you at least do it for me, because I don't understand. I couldn't possibly understand what you went through down there. But I will tell you what I can understand- that you went through it for me. So if you have something you can share to help me understand, you had better damn well share it because I _want to help._"

Dean let loose a sigh, suddenly feeling very old and weary. If he didn't die young he would at least grow old before his time. It seemed to come with being a hunter. Hell, he had been acting like an adult since his dad handed him Sammy and told him to run.

"Alright, Sammy. I know that. I know you just want to help. I've always known that. First thing you can do for me? Don't go feeling guilty every time I mention Hell. It is not your fault; I chose to do it, alright?"

Sam shifted uncomfortably in his spot, but nodded his head. "Okay," he said.

"Alright, then." Dean said too loudly, obviously feeling a little awkward. "Well, then, if that's all settled, it is now…" he glanced at his watch, "…three forty-two a.m., I suggest we get some sleep so we can get on the road early. What do you think of that?"

Sam nodded, and started crawling back under his own covers. He reached out and snapped the light off. The room was silent for a few minutes, then, because he couldn't help himself, Sam asked "Dean…what _were_ you dreaming about?"

From under Dean's covers there came a sound much like an annoyed groan, then "Clowns and midgets, Sammy, now go to bed."

Sam sighed, wondering if this late night confrontation had really done much good for either of them, then drifted off to sleep. Perhaps it had done him some good after all. His sleep was dreamless.


End file.
